


Olivia - origin Latin - meaning, Olive Tree.

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: AU from the end of season 2, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:11:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Observers give the ancient drawing to Peter in the red universe, rather than Olivia in the blue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olivia - origin Latin - meaning, Olive Tree.

Peter bolts on a Thursday, he’s had practice at this sort of thing, the type of trade skills not spoken of in polite society, he’s good enough to sink to the ground like a fox but in a world where the tech’s twenty years advanced he’s running on paranoia. He carries his knife, the clothes on his back, and a drawing that was left on the red seat of a diner.

It figures the Observers exist in both worlds, he thinks sullenly. Walter doesn’t brand him a fugitive; instead, he releases a press conference saying he’s son’s been returned. Peter’s adult visage is flashed on comms’ and internet feeds across the larger America, any anonymity he held but a dream. His father plays his part to perfection, humble with worry, only his eyes remain avarice cold.

The forest is black around him, gnarled branches stretched like spindly fingertips, if he tilts his head he can hear the trees, the rattle and decay of creeping Blight. The engine to his motorbike ticks in quiet counterpoint. Peter would have stolen a car in deference to the coming winter, but the security on a bike’s easier to boost. He hasn’t felt warm in days. Reiden Lake, the house in Cambridge, they’re all places Walternate would think to look. Peter’s mind is carefully blank. He leaves the bike hidden and walks the last two miles into Epswich, skirting the edges of the forest. He slides down an embankment in a controlled skid, dust kicking up on his heels, and follows the concrete spillway into town.

 _“It is understood Secretary Bishop’s son was held captive from the age of seven, Stockholm syndrome or a period of mental confusion should not be discounted. If spotted, the public is being urged to contact the proper authorities and not approach. Repeat, a story that has swept through the nation in the last fortnight…” ___

Peter has a list in his head of things that are giving him the irrits. One: being on the run in winter, because he fucking hates the cold. Two: cashless societies. Three: Mental confusion doesn’t begin to cover it, sweetheart. Four: Walter (he stumbles, bites down on his tongue) _Walter…_

There’s a tumultuous beauty in the world Peter occupies; in its rendered atmosphere, it’s frenetic pulse, the quality of light seems different. He wants to tell Walter it wasn’t worth it, that no one person is worth it.

There’s blood crusted under his nails. Peter draws the hoodie over his head, pulls his shoulders in and drops his height to a slouch, he circles the park twice before he stakes out a bench, one eye fixed on the row of houses opposite, both hands jammed into his pockets. When the first of the cars pulls out of its driveway, Peter cuts across the field and jumps the property line. He breaks in, movements economic, in less than thirty seconds. The address is 42 Willow St and none of the houses will sell. Peter has his first meal in two days, gulping down baloney sandwiches, staring out the window. Epswich sits on the borders of the Blight, in the distance, lightning storms crackle, the smell of ionization pungent, stronger with each strike against soil. He has three options, run, don’t get caught: make sure Walter doesn’t have the means to place him near the machine. Two, go back and try his best to dismantle the damn thing, three, there’s a gun close to his spine, the weight hefty, but Peter’s never been overly dramatic. The fourth option, reasoning with his father, went spectacularly unwell. Peter knuckles the grit from his eyes, feels his hand shake. From the house he steals warmer clothing, jewelry, and what food that won’t perish. He zips the leather jacket to his chin and sets about finding a goods man, because cashless societies or not, the selling of fenced items is a given.

He closes the door behind him, softly.

“I’ll buy your memories,” Derek nudges, “come on, man, you _gotta _know how much they’d be worth.” Derek Robson is exactly the same, Peter thinks incredulously, when he doesn’t respond, Robson’s smile starts to slip. “You know about memory supplanting, right? Big bucks on the black trade.” Memory-Sup was heralded as the cure to Alzheimer’s’, the re-writing of information over a brain that had lost the connections – the flipside is that there has to be a _recording _of those same memories to begin with. They found the cure to a disease that afflicts 5.1 million Americans in the other reality and at Fringe Division version two, Walternate uses the technology to ensure none of his Agents are doppelgangers. He wonders if Olivia, the one who exists in this world, knew someone was copying her memories, prying over her most intimate secrets, or if Olivia did know and didn’t give a damn.____

His expression flickers.

Robson takes an uncertain step. “Or if you want, the jewelry’s fine, I can set you up with a credit account on a fake ShowMe.”

“Sounds good,” Peter says amiably. He waits, body angled so he can watch the entry. The jewelry’s melted into gold, leaving the theft untraceable, but the ShowMe takes longer, Peter shifts his weight from foot to foot and thinks Robson really hasn’t changed. The click of a hammer being drawn stills the other man. “How long?”

“I don’t know what…” Half a pace forward and the butt of Peter’s weapon clips Robson over the skull. “Ow! Ow! Jesus man!”

Peter takes the gold (he doesn’t have time for the ShowMe), but he slams Robson’s head against the counter for good measure, lets the man slump to the ground. He takes the back exit, three steps at a time, and watches as two SUV’s squeal into main street. Olivia emerges from the second vehicle, her hair streaming red. Her gait’s different, a roll in her hips, the cargo pants ride low on her belly. Peter feels his heart skip, a confused drumbeat. The reaction isn’t abnormal. Part of him feels he’s been entangled with Olivia since the day they met, two entities on foreign soil. He’s been circling her patiently for three years, caught in an ever-decreasing orbit.

It’s not Olivia, he reminds himself, not _his _Olivia. The Olivia he knows was branded a soldier but Peter thinks the misnomer’s wrong, she’s an investigator, seeing the minutia others miss, rapid-fire connections between crime and motivation. Olivia seeks out the cracks, she brings them to light, and she does it with the frank stare, the dogged intent, of a hunter.__

He can’t speak for the woman on this side of the coin.

Peter slips backward, into further shadow. His father’s voice chases him, the memory of their last encounter spurring him to keep moving. “Say the machine does what you think, that it heals your world at the cost of theirs. You willing to put me in it, when the only thing I’m pissed off with at the moment, is _you _?” He knew how to handle Walter, knew when to use a threat, apply pressure; he knew when a gesture, a hand on the shoulder or cupping Walter’s cheek achieved greater results. The man who wears his face is a different kettle of fish. His father’s expression flattens, his voice cold with growing anger. “You came here of your own free will.” “Under false pretense and _not _to murder millions of people.” “Maybe, but your allegiances need correcting. You can’t forget, Peter. _You can’t forget where you come from…” _______

Peter bolts on a Thursday, there’s blood crusted under his nails and he can’t stop shivering, minor tremors like aftershocks, the way Elizabeth’s eyes widened. He lies under Castor and Pollux at night, tracking the constellations across the sky and thinks Olivia, Olivia, extending the olive branch. Her name means peace, her presence the only home Peter’s found.


End file.
